


Sing, o Muse

by Hevheia



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Iliad AU, Immortality, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, There is some fluff between the angst i promise, True Love, Trying to stop a war with the love of your life that was once your enemy because that is what you do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26265976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hevheia/pseuds/Hevheia
Summary: Sing me, o Muse, of the love of Yusuf and Nicolò,stronger than hatred and all-consumer death,one that saved many men from the house of Hades,strong-greaved Greeks and Trojans alike, tamers of horses.Sing it from the moment when they first slew each other,These enemies, bound by fate to face eternity together.Or: what if Nicolò and Yusuf met during the Trojan War instead of the crusades?
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 104
Kudos: 197





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Homer is the love of my life and so is The Old Guard, so I _had_ to write this! Especially since I saw Marwan say in an interview he imagined the bond between Joe and Nicky to be like the one between Achilles and Patroclus. (It is not a rewrite of the Iliad with Joe and Nicky instead of Achilles and Patroclus, though, they are both just soldiers and meet in the war). 
> 
> Anyway... I hope you enjoy it!!

_Sing me, o Muse, of the love of Yusuf and Nicolò,  
stronger than hatred and all-consumer death,  
one that saved many men from the house of Hades,  
strong-greaved Greeks and Trojans alike, tamers of horses.  
Sing it from the moment when they first slew each other,  
These enemies, bound by fate to face eternity together._

***

This is what Nicolò knows: There is a woman by the name of Helen, the most beautiful woman in all the world, and she has been stolen. All kingdoms of Greece have crossed the sea to save her and return her to her husband. Nicolò knows that this is the reason why he finds himself where he is, in the middle of a battlefield full of screaming soldiers and hissing weapons. 

He also knows with a fair amount of certainty that he already killed the Trojan who is now charging him.

Nicolò has just struck down another enemy with his javelin, and lifts his shield just in time to catch the man’s sword. There is no time to wrench the javelin from the body, so he draws his own sword and fights back as best as he can despite his confusion. He could have sworn he had driven his javelin straight through the Trojan’s neck only this morning. And yes, in between the striking of his sword and the ducking behind his shield, he catches a glimpse of blood all over his opponent’s throat and the front of his armour.

“By Zeus,” Nicolò grunts as he parries another blow. Even if he somehow survived that, how can the man still be fighting? 

He has no time to ponder more on the matter. His enemy’s strikes follow each other in quick succession. Nicolò barely keeps up and suffers some agonizing slashes to the arms and legs. Still, he manages to stand his ground and somehow stay alive as the Trojan’s wrath rains down upon him. Perhaps it is because the Trojan is affected by his wound after all, perhaps the looming proximity of death heightens Nicolò’s senses, perhaps the gods guide his body.

It must be the last one, he decides, because for the second time that day, he runs his weapon through his enemy. This time, he catches the man beneath his bellybutton, under the edge of his breastplate. They are both surprised when he does so, staring at each other with wide eyes as time holds its breath. 

Nicolò is struck by the depth of the Trojan’s dark eyes. How they are layered with shock and denial and anger and hatred. The man gasps for breath as blood begins to trickle from his mouth. As if bitten by a snake, Nicolò draws back. The man falls to his knees. He still tries to lift his sword and swing it at Nicolò, but he cries out and falls to the ground. After a while, he stops moving.

Nicolò stares at him for a couple of moments, not sure how he has come out of that alive. The world slowly comes back to him. The sun is setting, the fights for the day are over. Wounded men are groaning and whimpering around him. Others are helping them or are already retreating to the camp. Still dazed, Nicolò turns around and also starts making his way back, the point of his sword dragging over the ground. 

A piercing, white hot pain bores through his shoulder. He cries out and stumbles from the impact. When he turns around, he sees the man, the Trojan, the Trojan he just killed and was very much _dead_ , still lying on the ground but with a bow in hand. The last thing he sees before all goes blissfully blank is the end of an arrow sticking out of his own chest.

***

He wakes up, drawing for breath, shivering cold. He is in agony. He clenches his teeth and grunts as something is setting his chest and shoulder aflame. His hands grip the dry grass but fail to find purchase as he keeps ripping the blades out. Then, just like that, the pain is gone. He breathes.

It is dark around him, only a few torches flicker in the distance where men are looking for survivors to bring them to the healers or put them out of their misery if they are beyond saving. He remembers a sword coming down on him, dark, stunned eyes, a flare of excruciating pain in his shoulder. With trembling fingers, he softly touches his chest. To his surprise, he only finds smooth skin and dried blood through the hole in his armour. 

When he sits up, he notices two bloodied arrows lying next to him. Trojan arrows. His hand picks one up and he stares at it for he knows not how long. He glances at the sky where clouds obscure the moon and stars, as if he could find loud-thundering Zeus himself to give him answers. He grips the arrow tighter and stands up.

Once he has stumbled his way to the camp, he wanders around for some time because he cannot think clearly enough to find his way to his own tent. He passes the healers’ quarters and stands there for some time. He does not know how long, he only knows he cannot stop thinking that he should be lying there too. No, he should be lying on that field amongst all those other corpses. Shouldn't he?

Eventually, he tears his gaze away and wanders on. After a while, his feet manage to bring him to his tent. He pours some wine to the ground for the gods and curls up in his blankets. Surprisingly, sleep immediately drags him into unconsciousness.

But it is a fitful sleep he falls into. He dreams. He dreams of strange faces: two women, flashes of them, light blue eyes, long black hair, hands holding tight, a fatal-looking stomach wound. And then, and then, and then. That face. Glimpses of those earth-tone dark eyes, those calloused hands gripping his sword, gripping a wound at his side, caressing marble, hundreds of foreign ships coming to shore, the reflections on bronze armour.

He wakes up with a gasp. Sweat clings to his skin. He rubs his eyes to wipe the images away. It is the battle still playing in his mind, the events of the past day. The shock of his near-death. His fingers find his chest and trace the skin where he can still feel the arrow sinking in. 

He looks down at his hands. There is still some dried up blood from the Trojan on them. Those shocked eyes, that gasping mouth, the bow in those hands that should have been lifeless.

“By Zeus, what is happening?” he whispers shakily into the dark. 

***

The following day, Nicolò searches for him on the battlefield. And the day after and after and after. He is starting to think that maybe he has never killed the man after all and that someone else has finished the job. But then he finds him. When their eyes meet, they both pause. In Nicolò’s mind, flashes of his dreams pass by. Dreams of this Trojan man that will not leave him, mingled with a flood of confusing emotions that accompanies them. Pain, sorrow, anger, grief. He does not quite know if those emotions are his own. He shoves them aside. With determination, he charges.

The Trojan is ready for him. Their fight is fierce, none of them manages to break the other’s defenses. Metal clashes with metal and wood, with grunts and cries of frustration in between. Finally, Nicolò sees an opening, but it will leave him exposed. He has to try. His sword plunges forward, into the side of his opponent. But a white hot pain cuts through his own side. With their weapons in each other’s bodies, their eyes lock. The man spits blood at Nicolò’s feet. They fall together, and Nicolò faintly wonders if Zeus will be willing enough to wake him up a second time.

Apparently, he is and Nicolò draws breath once more. But so does his enemy.

They stare at each other in blatant shock. The other man grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like curses. Nicolò grasps his javelin again and stands up, the other man follows his lead. And so their fight continues.

Maybe their blows had not been lethal, Nicolò wonders. But even so, why does he not feel any pain anymore? Why is his opponent fighting as if he did not have a javelin buried into him only moments ago? Is it a god’s doing? But why would a god favour them both?

Too distracted by these questions swirling in his mind, Nicolò is not concentrated enough. His opponent slices his throat with an angry cry and all falls to darkness.

When he comes to again with a gasp, wincing as the skin of his throat is knitting itself back together, the Trojan is gone. 

That night when all is dark and quiet, Nicolò does not want to sleep. He does not want to dream. He does not want to feel the man’s anger and grief and pain. So he sits there in the dark with the Trojan’s arrow in his hands. 

This is what Nicolò knows: this arrow has killed him but he is still alive. Somehow he cannot die, somehow he is immortal. And he knows the man he dreams about is too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think, I'd absolutely love to hear it!
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://nickydestati.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

Nicolò is not a particularly talented or skilled soldier. He is trained, of course, like all the cast out boys King Peleus of Phthia takes under his wing, but he is no Idomeneus. He is no Diomedes or Ajax and certainly no swift-footed Achilles, his prince. He had no real experience prior to this expedition, and while yes, he has learned a lot on the raids they did on their way to Troy, he is still lacking. And if you are lacking as a soldier, not being able to die proves to be an invaluable asset. 

Especially if you are being hunted down by an enemy soldier who apparently also fails to stay dead.

The first time they killed each other, it was the beginning of the second year of the war which was already much longer than most soldiers had bargained for. Embassy after embassy went to Troy and came back empty-handed. No truce, no woman, no peace.

So they keep fighting. And Nicolò keeps killing the dark-eyed Trojan and the dark-eyed Trojan keeps killing him. Year after year.

It is a frustrating pastime, but still they keep gravitating towards each other on the battlefield. Maybe this day will be the day. Maybe this one, this one, this one. 

But Nicolò has to admit that is not the only reason why he seeks out his eternal opponent. As the years wear on and he keeps dying and coming to life again, he finds himself steadily getting isolated from the rest of the Greek camp. His fellow soldiers talk about honour and glory, about a legacy to secure and protect. And sometimes Nicolò wants to ask if defeating death should grant him gifts of honour the likes of Achilles’s. If engaging time and again in a battle against an enemy he can never defeat should grant him glory and his name in songs that outlive him for eternity. But then he wonders, does it even matter when the songs cannot outlive him? What is a legacy worth if it can never truly become a legacy? What are gifts of honour worth if they do not have to assure you you will surpass your own mortality? So Nicolò only frowns and listens and keeps the secrets of him and the dark-eyed Trojan to himself. 

It is in the seventh year, during a fight where they have both killed the other at least ten times already, that Nicolò’s opponent says, “This cannot go on like this.” It is not the first time they speak, but it has never really gotten beyond curses, provocations and threats, so Nicolò is surprised by the words, to say the least. 

Instead of answering though, he swings his sword again. The Trojan catches it on his own sword and for a moment they are pushing against each other with gritted teeth. With a grunt, the Trojan pushes Nicolò off and before Nicolò can regain his footing, knocks the butt of his sword against his temple. 

Nicolò comes back to consciousness on the ground with a familiar face leaning over him. As the light-headedness fades away, he reaches for his sword, but the cold pressure of a blade at his throat stops him. He swallows and looks up at the pensive eyes above him. The smell of blood and sweat stings in his nostrils.

After a short eternity, the man speaks, “Meet me at the Scamander at midnight.”

The blade slices Nicolò’s throat, and all goes black once again.

***

Nicolò slips away well before midnight. There are spies going out every night, so it is not difficult to leave. Quiet as a shadow, he leaves the camp and makes his way across the battlefield until he reaches the Scamander river. It signifies the boundary between no man’s land and Trojan territory, so he should be careful.

He wades across the river and finds some bushes to hide in. With his knife in hand, he waits. 

His knees and back are hurting and his legs are ice cold from the water by the time a figure appears. The figure looks around, peers at the other side of the river with his back to Nicolò. Nicolò stands up and sneaks up to him, taking advantage of the gentle rush of the river to mask the sound of his footsteps.

The Trojan huffs out a laugh as Nicolò presses his knife to his throat and holds him from behind. “You Greeks really are slow to learn,” he says. “You must know by now that will not work. But go on, be my guest. I will repay you the favour in five minutes.”

Nicolò hesitates, but eventually lowers his knife and shoves the man away. “What do you want?”

“Answers,” the man says as he turns around to face Nicolò, keeping a safe distance. He is not wearing armour, not even a helmet. His hair is tied back in a short, loose braid and it strikes Nicolò that it is the first time in seven years that he sees the man’s curls outside of his dreams. On all other occasions it had been slicked in sweat and blood, plastered to his skin. He does not know what to do with the realisation and the mesmerising effect it has on him, so he focuses on the man’s stern eyes. Eyes he knows well by now.

“I am not a traitor,” Nicolò says, but the man ignores him.

“Let us start with this: I am Yusuf. What is your name?”

Nicolò stares at him for a moment, thinking about telling him it is none of his business. Then he casts his eyes down. “Nicolò.”

“Have you always known you were like this?”

“Like what?”

The Trojan, Yusuf, merely looks at him, unimpressed.

“I only discovered it when you first killed me,” Nicolò answers.

This makes Yusuf’s eyebrows draw together. “So you are not the child of a god?”

Nicolò cannot help a bitter laugh. “No, I would be a poor excuse for a demigod.”

When Yusuf does not talk again, and keeps looking at some point on the ground with a troubled expression, Nicolò asks, “Are you?”

“Not as far as I know,” he answers. “But I thought maybe I-” He stops himself, shakes his head and his gaze meets Nicolò’s again, eyes hardening. “You were in my dreams.” 

It is almost an accusation. Nicolò’s breath hitches. The images of Yusuf flash in his own mind. Images he has been seeing for seven years now. His eyes, his hands, his grief. They are almost as familiar as his own. “And you in mine,” his mouth says before he can think better of it. “Ever since you- ever since the first time.”

Yusuf’s eyes widen and he takes a step forward, moonlight making his skin glow faintly. “And women? Do you see them too?”

Nicolò nods and swallows. He feels light-headed, has to close his eyes for a moment because this cannot happen. This is not supposed to happen. He is supposed to hate Yusuf, he is supposed to kill Yusuf. He is not supposed to share dreams with him and he is not supposed to be tied to him by this strange fate they share. “This is not possible,” he says aloud without realising. His heart pounds in his ears. “Why is this happening? Why is this happening to us of all people? What does it _mean_?”

“I wanted to ask you the same,” Yusuf answers. When Nicolò opens his eyes, Yusuf is watching him intently. As if he is a puzzle he cannot solve, a lock he is trying to pick. “But it must mean something. Maybe-” He closes his mouth and sighs, rubbing his eyes as if to clear something from his mind.

“What? What are you thinking?”

“I do not know. Maybe we should work together. Search for answers, find those women. Maybe they know more.”

That is too much for Nicolò to take, he tightens his grip on his knife and waves it at Yusuf in warning. “There is no way I am working with a Trojan,” he snarls.

Yusuf looks at him sharply, eyes narrowing. “Look, Nicolò, I do not like you. In fact, I hate the guts of you besieger-scum, and if we had any other choice, you can be certain I would gladly take it, but it seems like we have not. So we can either go on fruitlessly killing each other like two complete fools as we have been doing for the past seven years or we can try and figure out what in the name of Hades is happening to us.”

Nicolò hates that he is right. He hates it even more to admit it, so he says, “So what do you propose? That we leave right now to Athena knows where?”

“No,” Yusuf says decidedly. His voice sounds heavier than a moment ago. “I cannot leave my city behind when it needs me. For now, I propose a truce between us. No more fighting, no more killing each other. And after the war, we leave.”

“A truce?” Nicolò repeats and Yusuf nods. Nicolò sighs. “All right.”

“Swear it.”

“By Zeus, I swear it.”

Later, on his way back, Nicolò stops dead in his tracks when he catches sight of the Greek camp, and whispers to himself: “O Athena, what am I doing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment to let me know what you think, I'd love to hear it!!


	3. Chapter 3

Yusuf disappears from Nicolò’s dreams. The women are still there, but Yusuf is gone. He feels strange when he wakes up after the first night without any sight of the dark eyes he has secretly come to think of as beautiful, without the glimpses of a radiant smile he has witnessed on rare occasions. He does not know if he is grateful for their absence.

In the days after his meeting with Yusuf, Nicolò is troubled. He finds it hard to listen to his fellow soldiers and friends, cannot bring himself to interact with them as if he is one of them. Because he is not. He knows that now. He has known it for years and every day the feeling has ingrained itself deeper and deeper into his bones until it has become impossible to deny or ignore any longer.

The other soldiers notice that he is out of sorts. They joke that he is homesick, as if they are not. They joke that he should just find himself a pretty girl to release the tension, that he will always have one of the last picks in the loot if he keeps moping around like that. At first, Nicolò can still muster a smile and laugh it off, but after a while he clenches his jaw, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. How badly he wants to tell them, this gift he was granted that often feels more like a curse. The weight of his secret that has been bearing down on his shoulders, on his chest, how badly he wants to drop it on their heads. It makes him want to scream.

But he stands up and goes into his tent where he lies awake thinking of a man he used to see in his dreams.

Whenever he meets Yusuf on the battlefield, their eyes lock. The battle falls away to the coldness of night, the rushing of a river. A short nod, and then they are off looking for a new target. Somehow, Nicolò always stays aware of Yusuf’s presence. Perhaps a part of his mind does not trust him to uphold the truce, perhaps seven years of combat will make one more aware of each other, perhaps it is something else entirely.

It is months after their meeting at the Scamander that it happens. Nicolò has struck down a Trojan, barely coming out of it alive himself, and he looks around for his next opponent while his wounds are healing. Two figures are engaged in combat a little ways off. To his surprise, Nicolò recognises them. The one with the Greek armour is a Myrmidon, a man with whom Nicolò has often shared a campfire, but who has been one of his most vehement bullies and tormentors. The other one, with the waving crest on his helmet, is Yusuf. 

It is an intense battle, that much is clear. The Myrmidon is striking and swinging away, forcing Yusuf in the defense. Still, Yusuf is a witty fighter and manages to get some sneaky attacks through as well. 

It all happens so fast. It all happens before Nicolò can even _think_.

Yusuf’s sword gets knocked out of his hand, out of reach. He already lost his shield some time ago. The Myrmidon is laughing, lifting his axe up and up and up- until Nicolò’s sword is hilt deep in his back. When the man falls face down on the ground, Yusuf can jump away just in time to avoid being crushed. He stands there, empty-handed, staring at Nicolò and Nicolò cannot do anything but stare back and at his hands and at the body at his feet wearing Greek armour. 

How did he get here? How did that blood come on his sword, on his hands? How did he-

He stumbles backwards a couple of steps. He flees before Yusuf can say anything.

***

The moon is half full that night when he reaches the river. It shines just enough to outline a silhouette waiting on the opposite shore.

The silhouette walks back and forth along the riverbank. Agitated, ruffling through his hair, rubbing his face, pacing.

Nicolò’s mouth turns dry. With a piercing sting in his chest he recalls what he did today. What he still does not entirely believe, but what the presence of the figure on the other side confirms.

He rubs his hands which are raw from all the scrubbing of the last few hours, and waits for the silhouette to notice him. When he does, they stand there like two forgotten statues waiting for nature to cover them up. The river is not wide and only knee-deep here so it is easy to cross it. Still both of them stay on their own side, watching, wondering, waiting. Above them, the stars move across the firmament.

Nicolò does not know how much time has passed when Yusuf’s yell tears open the air, “Why?” He spreads his arms wide open. “Why could all of you not leave us the fuck alone?”

Nicolò did not expect that question, and before he can think better of it, he yells back, “If you Trojans would just return Helen, none of this would have happened!”

After a startled, building pause, Yusuf runs, splashing through the water. Nicolò does not realise what is happening until Yusuf stands before him and punches him in the face. “You still believe this is all about some woman?” he says as Nicolò stumbles, barely keeping his footing. Then Yusuf’s fists are on him again, pounding and pounding. Nicolò tries to grab them, tries to force Yusuf’s arms down and pin them at his sides. Yusuf resists and they fall to the ground and roll around wrestling. Nicolò fights back only halfheartedly. Somewhere, he knows that this is a man stretched thin with tension and war and chaos. 

After some struggling, Yusuf’s fingers release their grip on Nicolò’s throat and he breaks away from him. As he sits next to him, hunched over, Nicolò notices his shoulders are shaking. Soft sobs drift to him. His chest tightens at the sound and he has the strange urge to sit up and stroke the man's hair and back. He stays where he is, lying on the ground. 

“Why?” Yusuf repeats when the shaking has stopped, his voice sounds full of things that Nicolò can hardly grasp. “You know he could not kill me. Why did you save me? Why?”

Panic rises in Nicolò’s throat, because he has been asking himself the same questions. “I do not dream about you anymore,” is all he says, biting back tears he did not know he had. Bruises are forming and fading on his skin. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath, but he cannot hold it back anymore. He starts crying and he feels ridiculous and so relieved at the same time because it feels so unbelievably good to cry for once. He knows now, he _knows_ why he is crying. He is crying all the loneliness out of him, all the comments and panic and insecurity. All the grief that comes with not belonging anywhere. 

He faintly realises Yusuf is also crying again, though much softer beside Nicolò’s held back sobs. Nicolò would laugh if he could. Because here they are, two men, sworn enemies who have killed each other countless times for seven years, crying together to get all the grief and pain out. Grief Nicolò realises he has caused. 

_Why could all of you not leave us the fuck alone?_

When they are both out of tears, Nicolò sits up. They sit by the river in silence, watching the water flow past. Always fresh, always changing. 

“I am sorry,” Nicolò says. “About everything. About the war, about the past seven years, about today.”

Yusuf does not answer immediately. Instead, he plucks at the grass for a while. With a sigh, he stops, but does not look up. “I am not ready to forgive you yet. But I thank you. For today.”

Nicolò swallows, he had not expected forgiveness. He had not expected gratitude either and it makes a faint ripple of relief glow in him. Silence falls again, but this time it is lighter.

“If it is not about the woman, then what is it about?” Nicolò asks some time later, his eyes carefully darting to Yusuf’s profile.

“What it always is about, I think. Control, territory, power.”

“Not honour?”

Yusuf huffs out a bitter laugh. “War is rarely about honour. That is something for the soldiers, for the heroes. To keep them busy so they do not start asking questions.”

“Would you not want to be a hero?” Nicolò does not know where this sudden boldness comes from, yet he does not want to hold it back.

“A hero? No, I would not want that. I only want to be an artist. That is enough for me.”

Nicolò glances at Yusuf’s hands. Strong and calloused yet nimble and refined. He has seen them working with paint and marble in his dreams. They are not meant for swords and blood.

“And you?” Now Yusuf’s eyes are on him.

“Me?” Nicolò asks, looking away and smiling sheepishly. “No, I could never be a hero.”

“But would you want to be?”

Nicolò thinks for a moment before responding. He thinks of Achilles, prince of Phthia, the glory and greatness that was already a part of him even as a boy. The legend that is already writing itself on his skin while he still lives. He remembers the boys in the palace, pushing each other away to get in his favour, the sheer adoration with which they whispered about him. He always wore it well, his reputation and fame. But Nicolò knows what he has given up for it. He knows he has to fight to prove he is worthy of it again and again every day.

“No,” he answers eventually, and it is the truth. “I think being immortal is enough.”

Despite everything, Yusuf laughs and to Nicolò, the night has never seemed brighter.


	4. Chapter 4

It is not the last time they meet at the Scamander river under the watchful eye of the moon. He does not know if it feels the same to Yusuf, but it grows to be a kind of escape for Nicolò. A safe haven where the war fades to a gruesome, distant memory. Something from a story he heard long ago. 

What he does know for certain is that they both need the company. Sometimes, Yusuf is still cold and distant, and Nicolò notices the struggle in his expressions, the conflicting thoughts and feelings behind his eyes. Still, he always comes. Between the guilt and regret, Nicolò feels strangely grateful for that. 

At first, they meet only occasionally. A silent question on the battlefield, a quick nod, that is all they need. Gradually, it occurs more often. They have found a place a little further down the Scamander where there is a lower risk of being seen by scouts and spies. And it is there that they can pretend everything is normal for a couple of hours at a time. That they are simply two men enjoying each other’s company. Slowly, slowly, slowly the tension between them eases, the air breathes again and the silence is not filled with accusations unsaid. Nicolò finds himself talking more than he has ever done. He tells Yusuf it is sometimes hard to remember the rocky mountains of his homeland, he says he always thought he would become a priest in Zeus’s temple, he asks if it is comfortable to wear trousers because he has never worn anything but a chiton.

Yusuf laughs at the question and Nicolò’s heart jumps and longs to hear it again. Yusuf says that they do and that he will bring Nicolò a pair some time. Yusuf tells about his art, about how he likes pottery but prefers sculptures, he tells about how he was not born in Troy but further East and he moved here with his mother when he was only a little boy, he tells Nicolò about the stars and their names and movements as they lie in the grass, heads close together. And Nicolò listens and wonders and cannot fathom how he ever thought he hated this man. Because he is beautiful. By Zeus and all blissful gods on Mount Olympus, he is beautiful inside and out. 

_How can you sit here and talk with me, after all I have done?_ Nicolò wants to ask every time. But he is not a hero, so the words stay locked behind his teeth. He resolves to do better, though. To become a better man for him.

He finds himself staring at Yusuf’s hands sometimes. When they are pointing at the sky or gesticulating when he is explaining something he is ardent about. What would their soft touch feel like, Nicolò wonders, their caress, their embrace? His mind eagerly latches onto the questions and reaches for more. For dark eyes on him, for soft hungry lips on his, for warm skin moving beneath him. 

He is startled by the vividness of his thoughts, by the heat that is rising in the pit of his stomach all the way to his cheeks, by the thunderous pounding of his heart. He dismisses the images because that can never be. This is enough, he tells himself. If Yusuf tolerates his company, lets him stay by his side and may once even consider him a friend -something Nicolò only dares to dream of-, it will be enough. 

A soft smile curls around his lips as he watches Yusuf’s bright eyes and kind smile while he is talking, unaware of what is occurring in Nicolò’s mind. Yes, this is enough.

However much they like to pretend the war does not exist, it still does. When the sun rises, they armour themselves and take up their weapons. Nicolò’s heart skips a beat every time he catches sight of Yusuf on the battlefield. Sometimes he cries for help to distract Yusuf’s attacker. He still does not know why he does such things since Yusuf is never in any serious danger. He tells himself it is because he considers Yusuf to be his friend, a friend like he has never had before. He believes he will grow out of his foolishness after a while. 

Strangely, Yusuf sometimes does the same. Nicolò wisely decides not to think about that too much.

Nicolò finds it increasingly hard to step on the battlefield since that one night. The weapons feel wrong in his hands, yet they are too familiar. He cannot clear Yusuf’s words from his mind. War is rarely about honour. That is something for the soldiers, for the heroes. To keep them busy so they do not start asking questions.

Would the heroes know? Nicolò asks himself. Achilles, Ajax, even Hector the Trojan? Certainly Nestor must know, he is a wise man they say. Or Odysseus with his many many tricks, would he not know? But if they do, how can they keep fighting on? Do they not see the suffering they are causing without right or reason? 

Nicolò is not being fair. He only realised it after meeting Yusuf, he did not see the suffering either. Still, he thought heroes to be better than him. Maybe valuing honour and power above all else no matter what is precisely what makes a hero.

He does not kill his opponents anymore if he can help it. Sometimes he jumps in a fight, supposedly to help his brother-in-arms, but actually to protect the Trojan. He strikes him down with what he hopes is a non-lethal blow, and tells his fellow soldier that he will finish this one. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not, but he tries.

Still, it often does not feel like it is enough. Every day he looks around and sees tired faces, in the Greek camp too. The fighting is simply something they have to do, like breathing and bathing and eating. But a lot of the men would be happy to go home, to rest. Why would they not do it then, Nicolò asks himself, why do they keep going?

“Yusuf?” Nicolò asks one night. He is skipping stones across the river while Yusuf lies next to him, hands behind his head and with his eyes closed.

“Hmm?” he says, a little sleepy.

“When do you think the war will end?” He sends another stone softly splashing across the water surface.

He does not need to see Yusuf to know he has opened his eyes. The air changes slightly around them. They barely speak about the war here. This is a place for rest and peace.

A sigh, the sounds of Yusuf sitting up. “I do not know,” he says. “It has been nine years. You would think we would come at its end, but I find it hard to imagine. I doubt they will stop before one side or the other is slaughtered.”

Nicolò swallows, fumbles with a stone. Behind him, Yusuf softly curses. “Nine years,” Yusuf says, his voice is thick. “Imagine all the other things we could have done in that time.”

Nicolò turns around. He feels a surge rush through him, a certainty taking root in his heart and pumping through his veins. 

“We should do it, Yusuf.”

Yusuf watches him in puzzlement. “Do what?”

“End the war.”

“ _End the war_?”

Nicolò nods and takes a step closer to Yusuf. “Who would be better fit for it? We are each from another side, we both want as little suffering as possible and we cannot die. No one else will do it!”

“But how will we do it? You said it yourself, you are not of high rank in your army, and I am only an artist.”

“But you have connections at the court, haven’t you? And everyone is free to speak at the assemblies in our camp if they wish. And I can find some kindred spirits first who will back me up when I speak.”

Yusuf looks at him with an arched, doubting eyebrow.

“We have to do what we can. What is right. Are you with me?” Nicolò reaches out his hand.

After a long long pause, Yusuf breathes out and stands up, muttering what in Hades’s name he is getting himself into. But he is smiling and there are stars twinkling in his eyes. “You are a man of surprises, Nicolò,” he says and grabs his forearm in agreement. “May Apollo stand by me, yes, I am with you.”

Nicolò’s heart flutters, he cannot help the wide smile. “Do you swear it?”

Yusuf laughs and Nicolò feels as if he has swallowed the sun. “By Zeus, I swear it!”


	5. Chapter 5

They start small. With the soldiers closest to them. Befriending them, talking to them, getting to know what they are thinking but are not supposed to say. It is a slow but necessary process. Especially Nicolò will need all the people he can get behind him, so it is imperative to mingle more with the other Greek soldiers he estranged from again. He discovers a lot of the Myrmidons would want nothing more than to leave this forsaken city behind and sail home, though they will only admit it in relative privacy and after enough wine.

They report to each other and plan at night by the riverside. 

“What about your prince? Achilles?” Yusuf asks. “He is a big deal, if you could convince him, you will have the whole Greek army by your side.”

Nicolò shakes his head. “I do not know. Achilles… he is a reasonable man, but he can be unpredictable and he puts his fame and glory before all else. He has given his life in exchange after all.” He pauses, thinking. “But maybe he will listen to Patroclus. He is his beloved, they are always together. I do not know him, but I have heard he is more level-headed and in touch with the men. Maybe I can try to get to him. It will not be easy, but ending a war is not exactly easy either.”

Yusuf smiles, biting the inside of his cheek. They sink back in thoughts. Yusuf leans back, Nicolò sits cross-legged, thinking about how he might meet Patroclus.

“I did not think a man like Achilles would have a beloved,” Yusuf muses aloud while his eyes travel the sky. Nicolò silently admires the profile of his face outlined against the starry night. The slope of his nose, the curls that have escaped his loose braid, the fuzzy, soft-looking hair on his cheeks where his beard begins.

He looks back at his hands playing with the grass. “They say Patroclus is the only thing Achilles values more than his own fame. They say Achilles once said their souls were two parts of a whole, two sides of one heart.” He glances up at Yusuf as he tells this, finding the man’s eyes already on him. His skin grows hot, his chest tightens. He looks away.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf says after a silence, standing up. The sound of his name spoken in Yusuf's voice sends a shiver over Nicolò’s skin. Yusuf reaches his hand out to help Nicolò up too. “Come, I want to show you something.”

***

He takes Nicolò into Troy. Through a weakness in the walls you would not even notice when standing right in front of it if you did not know about it. He leads him through the tight streets that are in various states of neglect. Nine years of siege leaves its scars on a city. Nicolò can imagine what it must have been like before the Greeks invaded their shores, though, from Yusuf's stories about the city. Freshly painted façades, stones glowing in bright sunlight, colourful robes and draperies hanging around the streets, the smell of fresh cooking and the sound of conversation and laughter everywhere.

Now it is oddly silent in the night. The people of Troy need their rest for another day of fearful waiting.

They turn a corner and another and Nicolò is already lost in the maze of dimly lit streets. But it is all right, he knows which star to follow to guide him through.

After some time, Yusuf stops. He turns around and grins at Nicolò. He opens a door and lets Nicolò enter first. With a slight nod, he says, “Be welcome.”

It is too dark inside to see anything at first. Nicolò halts not far from the door, afraid to crash into something or knock something over if he moves any further. Yusuf slips in behind him and swiftly lights some oil lamps. Light by light, the room reveals itself. It is so beautiful Nicolò gasps. The walls are painted from top to bottom in the most colourful and mesmerising patterns Nicolò has ever seen, intricate yet playful. Tables are cluttered with tools and pigments, pottery and cloths. Blocks of marble litter the room, some plain and unworked, others in various degrees of completion. 

Nicolò takes a step forward, his hand hovering over a painted wall. This is him, he thinks. His soul is in all of it.

“Yusuf,” is the only thing he can say. He slowly turns his head from the wall to its creator. He is standing in the middle of it all, right where he belongs and it warms Nicolò’s heart. Yusuf is smiling softly though there is something insecure about it. A self-consciousness Nicolò has not seen in Yusuf before. 

“Yusuf, I have no words,” Nicolò marvels, looking overhead where he notices the ceiling is painted too with the sun on one side gradually fading into night on the other. “It is beautiful.”

“I thought you might like it.”

“Like it? Yusuf, this is… stunning. Brilliant!” He moves to a statue of a catlike animal, brushes his fingertips over its head. 

“I still have to paint that. I have not come around to it yet.”

Nicolò does not have to ask why. He steps further to a table where wooden panels are splayed about. Some carefully because the paint on them is drying, paintings of vines and houses and geometric patterns, others haphazardly strewn about and stacked. 

It is one of those untidy piles that makes Nicolò stop. Everything stops. His breath, his mind, time itself. 

It is himself he sees. His eyes, his hands, his face turned away looking at something in the distance. His mouth, his teeth, his smile, his hair, his helmet, his tunic, his face, his face, his face. Most are small and rudimentarily drawn in charcoal, propped together on the same panel, drawn and painted over each other, a few are more refined, detailed, elaborate. 

“I had to do them from dreams and memory,” Yusuf says softly behind him. He stands so close his breath ghosts over the skin of Nicolò’s neck as he talks. The faintest of touches of his chest against Nicolò's back.

Nicolò tears his gaze away from the panels and turns around. Yusuf does not step back and he is so close so close so close. Yusuf’s eyes drop down for a second, to Nicolò’s mouth. Their noses graze each other softly. 

“Would you like to do one from reality?” Nicolò whispers, breathless.

Yusuf does not answer. Instead, he takes an empty wooden slate from behind Nicolò and moves away to the pigments. Nicolò stands there for a moment longer, blinking and breathing and holding the table for support. His heart is racing, thundering like the hooves of chariot horses. 

Yusuf looks over to him in consideration, then decidedly picks some pigments. He rummages with them for a while, adding this and that. 

“Please sit,” he says when everything is ready, gesturing to a marble block behind Nicolò. He sets himself down on a stool, the wooden slate on his lap, and watches Nicolò so intently Nicolò feels the heat rising to his cheeks.

“Can you look over there?” Yusuf asks, pointing diagonally over his shoulder. “A little more. Yes, perfect.” 

One side of Yusuf’s mouth quirks up as Nicolò glances at him. Nicolò smiles back and Yusuf goes to work.

As time progresses, Nicolò becomes less and less self-aware. The sounds of the charcoal and brushes scratching the wood, of Yusuf’s movements as he shifts and rummages through whatever he needs, of his subconscious sighs and soft humming as he works, they make Nicolò feel calm inside. Peaceful. He loses himself in Yusuf’s warm, grounding presence and the beautifully painted wall before him. To have this, he thinks to himself, day in and day out, that would be true happiness.

He startles when Yusuf stands up and comes over. The corners of his mouth curl slightly upwards in excited anticipation. He kneels down before Nicolò.

“Do you wish to see it?”

Nicolò smiles. He is looking at the sun. He must be, otherwise how could he feel so warm inside? “Of course I do.”

Yusuf turns the wooden slate around, intently watching Nicolò’s reaction. 

When Nicolò looks down to the wood, his breath hitches and his eyes widen. He glances up at Yusuf and down again at the painting. The lines, the colours, the tenderness of it all. Beautiful. Yusuf has made him beautiful. His throat tightens and his fingers tremble as they hover over the wood, remembering in time that the paint is still wet. His throat tightens and where do those tears come from filling his eyes?

He looks up in Yusuf’s eyes. Yusuf’s eyes which are shining also and telling him so so much.

“Is this how you see me?” Nicolò whispers. 

“Yes,” Yusuf says. “Yes, it is.” With one hand, he puts the painting on the ground to the side. With his other, he cups Nicolò’s face. “It is,” he breathes right before his lips touch Nicolò’s. 

Nicolò lets out a strangled sound and his hands grab the front of Yusuf’s shirt. Holding him tight, holding him there. The kiss is his shelter and in its safety he comes to realise what he has silently known for a long time. Yusuf’s lips are his water, his warmth, his light. Yusuf is the air in his lungs and the sun and moon in his sky. Yusuf is the other part of his soul, the other side of his heart.

Nicolò is light-headed when they break apart for breath. They press their foreheads to each other, both reeling from the intensity of the kiss, of the moment they have both been waiting for for so long. Yusuf’s hands are on Nicolò’s legs, holding on as tightly as Nicolò is still holding his shirt. He is afraid that if he lets go, he will drown in everything that is rushing inside of him. 

“Stay,” Yusuf whispers breathlessly in the small space between their lips. “Stay with me for the night. Just for tonight. They have taken enough from us already. Do not let them have this, too. Stay with me please, Nicolò.”

Nicolò should say no. It is already too late, he should get back to camp, he should get some sleep, he should prepare and plan. 

He kisses Yusuf. And Yusuf takes him to his bed and shows him how two bodies can take love and turn it into art.

***

The damp cold of morning hangs in the air when Yusuf leads Nicolò back by the hand through the maze of streets. Through the hidden weakness in the walls.

When they arrive at the Scamander, they embrace each other. Nicolò closes his eyes, breathing in Yusuf’s scent. How he wishes their nights could last forever. 

He sighs and wants to draw back, but Yusuf holds on tighter. His lips graze Nicolò’s ear and he feels a wetness on Yusuf’s cheek against his. Softly, Yusuf whispers, “I forgive you.”


	6. Chapter 6

The weeks pass. Slow but steady, Nicolò gains more and more respect among the Greek soldiers. He earns himself a reputation for always getting up again when he is wounded, for refusing to go to the healer’s after battle because others need it more. He waves it away as luck and some fortune from the gods, and secretly prays nobody will notice him actually dying. So far, it is working. It is more difficult to get into the circles around Achilles, but he makes himself a familiar face. From time to time, Patroclus even nods at him when their eyes meet.

However, the newfound popularity and attention mean it grows more difficult to slip away at night. People notice him now, people care where he goes. Once, one of the men jokingly asks if he has a Trojan girl he sneaks off to. Nicolò goes along with the joke and laughs it off, but next time he goes out, he is certain to be more careful.

He is always relieved to have Yusuf in his arms again. How he wishes he could hold him beneath the sunlight too, see how it lets his skin glow and his smile beam. Soon, he tells himself, soon they will have eternity together.

He is making an offering to the gods at a small altar the Myrmidons have put up when his chance finally presents itself. Maybe the gods have been listening to his requests after all. Patroclus appears next to him, making his own offerings. He is a pious man, Nicolò can see it by the swift yet solemn movements of his hands. 

Patroclus surprises him by talking first. “You are Nicolò, are you not?”

“I am.”

“You fight bravely, I hear.”

Nicolò thinks of all the Trojans he secretly let live. “I simply try to do what is right.” He pauses. His heart is racing, this is his chance. “Still… may I speak freely, lord?”

“I am no lord,” Patroclus says with something of a smile in his voice. He pours out some wine from a golden cup. “Please do.”

“I cannot help but think this war is growing meaningless. Like a stubborn, endless tug-of-war where neither side can ever win. And many men think the same. We are weary, we want to go home. If we even know what home is anymore.”

Patroclus’s hands still. “I know,” he sighs. “But there is nothing I can do.”

Nicolò’s heart is in his throat, but he cannot back down now. “And what of Achilles, he can-”

“Achilles cannot cease the war,” Patroclus cuts in. “Even if he could convince that thick-headed Agamemnon, he would not. His legacy depends on this war, it is all he has left. Nothing is worth more to him than that.”

Nicolò knows this. He has heard of a prophecy that gave Achilles a choice: a long life lived in peace but obscurity or a life ended prematurely but resonating for centuries. He resists the urge to ask if even Patroclus is not worth more. He knows that to him, no legacy or fame would ever be worth more than Yusuf. But maybe his immortality makes him biased.

“But surely his legacy is secured a thousand times over already. There is no match for him on the battlefield and beyond. He is the greatest warrior of our time.”

“And yet Troy still stands.” Patroclus turns to face Nicolò. “Achilles never intended to return from Troy. These years added to his life have been more than he bargained for, more than I could hope for.” He puts a hand on Nicolò’s shoulder. “I am sorry, but there really is nothing I can do. We will have to wrestle through.”

Nicolò watches him leave with a pit in his stomach.

***

Nicolò cannot wait for nightfall, so when he lays eyes on Yusuf on the battlefield, he attacks him.

“Nicolò, my heart,” Yusuf says, easily catching Nicolò’s javelin on his shield, “to what do I owe the pleasure of gazing upon your beauty by daylight?” 

Nicolò smiles a little. He would have laughed if he was not so perturbed, because Yusuf’s wit and charm even in situations such as these are truly unparallelled.

“I talked to Patroclus,” he says, parrying a blow. “He said there is nothing he can do.”

“By Apollo,” Yusuf mutters in disappointment. He ducks from a swipe of Nicolò’s javelin. “So what now?”

“I do not know,” Nicolò admits, lifting his shield as Yusuf’s sword bounces off. 

“Maybe I have an idea,” Yusuf says with a light dawning in his eyes. “I will tell you tonight. Now stab me, my love.”

Nicolò is so surprised he lets Yusuf knock his javelin out of his hand. “What?”

“Stab me. I will pretend to die. It is okay, I will be all right.”

Nicolò hesitates, but as Yusuf comes closer, he draws a dagger and stabs Yusuf as softly as possible in a place he knows he will heal before dying. It feels a lot like stabbing himself in the heart. They are close, chest to chest and Nicolò’s other arm grabs Yusuf by the shoulder. He draws back the dagger as quickly as he can.

“I am sorry, my light,” Nicolò whispers.

“It is all right, my love,” Yusuf groans. “It is already healing. Now let me go.”

Nicolò presses a quick kiss to Yusuf’s sweaty temple and steps back. Yusuf falls to the ground like a sack of grain, but winks at Nicolò before Nicolò walks away.

***

This is Yusuf’s plan. There is a priest of Apollo by the name of Chryses, and his daughter, also a priestess, has been captured by the Greeks and taken as a war prize by King Agamemnon himself. Yusuf knows the priest from a couple of statues and murals he has done for the temple. He will convince him to go to the Greek camp with a ransom that is impossible to refuse. Yet, Agamemnon, affronted and insecure about his own position and fame next to all the other heroes and kings, will seek compensation for his lost honour. And he will seek it with the other heroes. The men will not tolerate this, that their leader will breach another’s honour unfairly. This will cause a division in the Greek camp, a rupture that will leave them quarrelling and weaken them. The Trojans will start to gain on them and as they notice the tides are turning against them, the Greeks will finally give up and leave.

It would have been the perfect plan, should they not have miscalculated Agamemnon. They have not counted his lack of piety, his irreconcilability. He does not accept the ransom, he does not return the girl.

Instead, the plague strikes.

***

“Stay there! Do not come over! I do not want to bring it to Troy.”

“You cannot fall ill,” Yusuf says from across the river. "And neither can I."

“I know, but maybe it is in my clothes or on my skin.”

Yusuf thinks for a moment with his hands on his hips. He shrugs and says, “I know a solution for that.” He strips and steps into the river where it is waist-deep. He hisses and grunts from the cold, but he squeezes out a smile. “Join me, it is lovely in here.”

Nicolò hesitates for a moment more, but gives in. He strips too and quickly jumps in the water. He curses when the cold bites his skin. He goes deeper, until the water reaches his chin and then dives down to be certain he is all clean. 

When he surfaces again, Yusuf has swum over and Nicolò holds on to him like an anchor. Their lips meet and Yusuf’s hands are in his wet hair as he pulls him closer. Nicolò presses closer still. He needs Yusuf’s soft warmth, he needs it to burn out the terrible things he has witnessed in the camp these last few days. Men gurgling, coughing, retching. Men delusional with fever, men falling to the ground without warning and not standing up anymore. The nauseating stink of vomit and death and everburning pyres. 

“It is a nightmare,” Nicolò says when they break apart, still holding each other tightly. He shivers and Yusuf brushes his forehead to Nicolò’s in comfort. 

“It is Apollo’s doing,” Yusuf says. 

“Apollo?” Nicolò looks into his familiar eyes which are filled with sad sympathy. 

“To avenge how Agamemnon has slighted his priest by refusing the ransom. I heard the priest declare how Apollo has granted his wish.”

It makes sense. Only men fall ill, Nicolò realises now he thinks about it. Only free men at that, no women, no slaves. Yet neither officers or nobles or kings. It must be a warning for them, an omen that it will leave them for last.

“Nicolò.” Yusuf sounds hesitant. “Maybe this is what we have been waiting for.”

Nicolò does not understand at first. He frowns and searches Yusuf’s face as if he can find what he means in the gentle slopes of his features. His eyes widen as it dawns on him.

“No, Yusuf, they will all die.”

Yusuf only looks at him, his lips pursing slightly.

“As little suffering as possible,” Nicolò reminds him, panic seeping through, “that is what we wanted. If it goes on like this, nobody will be able to return home because there will be no one left. It is the common soldiers he strikes now. They are still blinded by the promise of fame, but they are good men. They are good men. I- We cannot let them all die.”

Yusuf sighs. “No, no, I know. I am sorry.” He presses his forehead to Nicolò’s again and Nicolò closes his eyes, relief washing over him because this is the Yusuf he knows.

“I just-” Yusuf makes a frustrated sound as his voice breaks. His fingers curl into a fist against Nicolò’s chest. “I do not know anymore what to do.”

Nicolò takes his hand, intertwines their fingers and holds it between their hearts. “I know, my heart, I know.”

***

It is Nicolò who starts the demand for Kalchas. He does it subtly, only a remark to a couple of soldiers, but it spreads fast. Two days later, King Agamemnon calls an assembly to hear what the seer Kalchas has to say.

It is as Yusuf has said, the wrath of Apollo. Achilles tells Agamemnon to return the girl. Agamemnon cannot stand being told he was wrong. He returns the girl but demands another. His beady eyes land on Achilles, maliciously. Briseis, he snarls. There is a shockwave, an uproar. They argue, prince against king, shepherd of men. 

Then it happens. Achilles refuses to fight any longer and forbids the Myrmidons to do so either. There is nothing he values more than his own honour after all, and it has been desecrated in the worst way imaginable.

Nicolò gapes at him as he stalks off, fury etched across every inch of his body.

The rupture has formed, he realises. Their plan is working.


	7. Chapter 7

In fact, their plan is working marvelously. 

“The men are discouraged now Achilles does not fight anymore,” Nicolò tells Yusuf with a giddiness he thought he had lost between all the fighting. “It won’t take long now.”

Yusuf cups Nicolò’s face in his hands and smiles at him like he is the only person on earth. “We did it, my heart, we actually did it.”

Nicolò laughs and Yusuf kisses his own laughter onto Nicolò’s lips. And they embrace each other and kiss and laugh together as if the war has already ended.

Their plan is working perfectly. There is an assembly where Agamemnon proposes to give up the war and return home. The men yell and cheer, Nicolò loudest of all. He cannot wait to tell Yusuf, he cannot help but smile as he imagines Yusuf’s face upon hearing the news.

But, but, but. 

There is Odysseus. Odysseus with his fancy words and tricks and manipulations, telling them they mustn’t give up. The men listen to him, start to agree with him.

No, Nicolò wants to yell. No, we are leaving, we are going home. No, I have to tell Yusuf his plan worked and this nightmare is finally over and we can start our eternity together.

It is too late. They stay.

There is a short truce. A duel between Menelaus and Paris that should have taken place the day the Greeks arrived on Trojan shores. Paris disappears, a Trojan breaks the truce, the fighting continues. Nicolò hears all of this afterwards. He is a Myrmidon and he does not fight anymore. It troubles him, because he does not know what happens on the battlefield. Because he cannot save the few Trojans he could. His days are mere cycles of endless waiting.

The Greeks start losing, every day the funeral pyres burn higher. Achilles does not fight.

An embassy visits Achilles in the night on behalf of Agamemnon. They offer him riches worth five times the girl. Achilles does not yield and still does not fight.

The Greeks have some victories, but they are small and pitiful. “Why do they not give up? We were so close,” Nicolò says, holding Yusuf’s hand tightly. 

“We still are. They will make up their mind again. They have to.”

Nicolò buries his face in his free hand. “I am sorry, Yusuf. I am sorry.”

Yusuf squeezes his hand. “We carry the world on our shoulders, my love. We are doing all we can. We must not give up now.”

Nicolò nods and wonders for the millionth time how he has ever deserved this man.

Not much later, the Trojans camp outside their city’s walls. A taunting warning. 

The next day, they are inside the Greek encampment. The great wall, the Greek pride and joy, creaks and groans and gives way beneath Trojan forces. Nicolò jumps up when he hears the screams. Close. Too close. The Myrmidons are looking at each other, hesitantly reaching for their armour and weapons. Should they…?

Achilles comes out of his tent and the eyes of the Myrmidons latch onto him. Nicolò’s shoulders slump when he notices the prince is not wearing armour. Achilles simply crosses his arms over his chest and watches, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

Nicolò wanders in the direction of the screams. In the distance, small figures are piling inside the Greek camp. They are crawling and writhing. Is Yusuf among them, he asks himself.

He does not know what to think. Maybe it is for the best that Achilles still refuses to fight. Maybe this will be it, finally, the end of all the suffering. The last sacrifice. Still, Nicolò would rather have had it happened without any sacrifice at all. There have been too many of those already. 

He stays at the edge of the Myrmidon territory of the camp. From what he can tell from this distance, the Greeks are putting up quite the fight. They even manage to drive the Trojans back for a while. But then their resolve breaks. One crest-helmed figure in particular mows through the Greek lines like a ship clieving through the waves. Hector. 

He goes right for the Greek ships. In a matter of seconds, two of them are burning. Nicolò stares at the flames, hungrily lapping up at the sky. He can hear the ships groan from where he is standing. It takes all his willpower to not run over there. He aches to help in any way he can, to find Yusuf and fight together to save whom they can. 

Then there is yelling behind him and he whirls around. He thinks a force of Trojans has come around and attacked them from behind, but he only sees fully armoured Myrmidons thundering towards him. It takes a moment to realise they are following someone. On a chariot, Achilles stands tall, javelins at the ready.

Nicolò curses. He does not go back for his armour. He does not need it. He simply picks up the first weapons he comes across and runs along, wondering what in Hades's name has changed Achilles's mind.

He has to find Yusuf.

It is chaos by the walls. Greeks are running about to extinguish the spreading fire while trying to fight off the Trojans. Bodies litter the camp, Greeks and Trojans alike. 

Nicolò feels the exact moment the fighting men notice Achilles. The Greeks draw breath while the Trojans hold theirs. Achilles lifts his javelin and for a moment Nicolò thinks something is off about it. But then he throws and it hits a Trojan soldier right in the chest. None other than Achilles can throw a javelin like that from such a distance. 

Nicolò’s eyes fall on Automedon, though, Achilles’s charioteer. The sheer panic in his eyes tells him there is something seriously wrong about all this.

He is too distracted to notice the Trojan coming from behind. A piercing pain in his back is all he feels before falling to the ground.

When he comes to, it is to Yusuf’s face hanging above him, cradling his head in his hands. 

“Thank the gods,” Yusuf breathes and closes his eyes briefly. 

Nicolò looks around as he sits up, the wound in his back pulling as it is still healing. The fight has moved, the ships are still burning. “Where is everyone?”

“The Trojans fled when they saw Achilles. I have been looking for you.”

Achilles. “Yusuf,” Nicolò says and holds Yusuf's arms as he looks into his eyes. “Yusuf, something is wrong.”

“Wrong? What do you mean?”

“I think that man is not Achilles. I think it is a trick.”

“But then who-” Yusuf falters, his eyes growing distant and his mouth forming a little o as it dawns on him. “But he is no match for all those Trojans. Hector will kill him if he finds out! And if he does…”

Nicolò swallows. “Achilles will not rest until all of Troy is burned to the ground.” He stands up. “We have to go. We have to do something.”

“Wait, here, take this,” Yusuf says and grabs a helmet that has rolled off a body somewhere to give it to Nicolò. 

Nicolò takes it and together, they run onto the battlefield.

The chariot is a long way off, almost at the walls of Troy. The Trojans are scattered, running towards their city in fear. Nicolò and Yusuf run for their life.

Something is happening at the wall. As they come closer, it is almost like someone is climbing it. But that could not be, no one would be as foolish as to-

Something falls. Soldiers gather around it like vultures. One of the soldiers has a high crest on his helmet. Nicolò’s legs are burning but he barely notices. He only notices the soldier raising his spear, then bringing it down.

“No!” he screams and it rips the sky in two. 

He quickens his step. Yusuf is faster still, running way ahead. Still, even Yusuf is too late. They are already fighting for the body.

Nicolò’s step falters. As he is panting for breath, his eyes meet Yusuf’s. The concerned set of Yusuf’s brow confirms the dread in his own stomach. Patroclus is dead. Soon, Troy will meet Achilles's wrath.


	8. Chapter 8

Grief is an ugly thing. It is painful to watch and horrible to endure. Achilles is a man of extremes and in his grief he is no different. His hair is a mess with bald spots across his skull from where he has ripped it out. His face is either distorted in fury and pain or terrifyingly blank. He wanders about aimlessly like a sick and wounded lion. Everyone stays clear of him. 

The last days have been rightout slaughter. Achilles fights once again. He is reconciled with Agamemnon, they do not speak anymore of their quarrel. In all the ten years of this abhorrent war, there have never been so many dead Trojan soldiers as now. The Scamander turned red for a while by Achilles’s doing. Nicolò and Yusuf do not look at it too much when they meet. 

Then there is Hector. He knows it is him that Achilles wants and he has never been one to flee his duty. Yet, he does flee the raging man at the beginning. Three times, Achilles chases him around the walls of Troy. All the Trojans watch, all the Greeks do too. Among them is Nicolò and somewhere, Yusuf must be too. Nicolò wishes Yusuf was standing next to him. He wishes it would all finally end.

Hector dies of course. He is no match for the son of a goddess. Troy is lost now, everyone knows that. But the Greeks do not celebrate.

The days pass and every morning, Achilles binds Hector’s body behind his chariot and drags him around Troy, around the grave that has been put up for his dead beloved. He is going too far, the men say, it is improper. Nicolò agrees, but he understands Achilles and his grief. He thinks of Yusuf, his breath, his heart, his sun. He thinks of Yusuf dea- No, he does not wish to even imagine it. Yusuf’s eyes will always stay alight and Nicolò thanks the gods every day for that.

“Nicolò?” Yusuf asks. They are in his house in Troy because they need the enclosed space, the sense of safety and the warmth of Yusuf’s art to forget for a while all the past atrocities they have witnessed and all the horrors that are yet to follow. They lie in each other’s arm on Yusuf’s bed, skin against skin, in the tender glow of an oil lamp. Nicolò’s head rests on Yusuf’s chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. Yusuf tenderly strokes his fingers through Nicolò’s hair.

“Yes, my light?” Nicolò hums. 

“We need to get Prince Hector back to Troy. So he can have a proper burial.”

Nicolò opens his eyes, traces his fingers across Yusuf’s belly.

“Achilles will not let him go. The only person who could have convinced him is dead. Others have tried, but he will not listen to anyone else.”

“Not even if the King of Troy was to come himself?”

Nicolò lifts his head and rests his chin on Yusuf’s chest so he can look him in the eye. “King Priam?”

Yusuf nods, gently tucking some hair behind Nicolò’s ear. “I have heard he wishes to retrieve his son, but the rest of the royal family is against it.”

“And with reason, if he was to be seen, he would be killed on the spot. Or worse. He would not even be able to get past the wall.”

“Unless,” Yusuf says and plucks Nicolò’s hand from where it rests on his belly. He brings it to his mouth and softly brushes his lips against the back of it. His eyes look up through his lashes and meet Nicolò’s. “We help him.”

Nicolò has to close his eyes for a moment because he cannot think clearly when Yusuf touches him so tenderly. 

“It is Achilles we are talking about,” Nicolò says. 

“Yes, and he is known for his great fury. But was he once not also known for his great compassion? Did you not tell me once that he is one of the few Greeks who grants his conquered enemies a proper burial instead of feeding them to his dogs?”

“He has sworn not to this time.”

“Could a supplicant not move his heart? An old king who has lost everything and is about to lose even more, humiliating himself so that he is crawling in the dust before him to beg for his son’s body? If he has ever loved Patroclus as dearly as you told me, then I believe his heart will listen to the king’s pleas, because I know such hearts.”

Nicolò opens his eyes and feels too large for his skin when he meets Yusuf’s gaze which is filled with such love he can hardly breathe. He presses his lips to Yusuf’s chest, right above his heart that is made of nothing but kindness and sunlight.

Yusuf’s hand cups his cheek when Nicolò lifts his head again. “We have to try, my heart. Because it is right.”

Nicolò nods. “Because it is right.” 

The corners of Yusuf’s lips curve upwards and he kisses Nicolò with a tenderness not from this earth. 

For everything this war has cost them, at least they have found each other.

***

Nicolò waits for them at the Scamander at nightfall. King Priam is riding a chariot and an old man rides a cart that clinks with ransom. Yusuf is sitting next to the man. They descend their vehicles upon reaching the river and let their horses and mule drink. 

Nicolò appears and greets them. The old man stares at him in fear, glancing at his king as if considering if they should flee or plead for their lives. Yusuf nods at him, Nicolò nods back. He bows before the king. 

“My lord, I will see you safely into the camp of the Greeks and to the tent of Prince Achilles. I will protect you and make sure no harm comes to you.”

The King is pale and filthy, covered in rags and with dark circles under his eyes. If not for the cart filled with riches, Nicolò would not have suspected this man was a king. “I thank you,” the King says with a frail voice. “May the gods bless you.”

They continue their way. Nicolò leads them to a secret passage in the wall he has made in his preparation for this plan. It is close to the Myrmidon side of the camp and he has called in some favours to make sure there are no guards around where he has to pass. Still, he is careful and is on guard for any unusual movement or sound. 

Achilles can open the door to his abode easily, but ordinary soldiers have to be with two or three to open it. It takes Yusuf and Nicolò some struggling and pulled muscles, but they manage to open it eventually. They close it again when the cart and chariot have entered the small court, staying outside. The smell of cooked meat still hangs in the air, Achilles must be eating or just have finished his meal. An ideal timing for the King.

They wait in the shadows. Nicolò thinks his heart might pound right out of his chest. 

Next to him, Yusuf is staring at the door intently. He has never been inside the Greek camp, but his usually curious eyes do not wander around. He is pale and his jaw is tight, his hands clenched around the fabric of his trousers. 

Nicolò reaches out and takes one of his hands in his. Yusuf holds on tight. 

Time passes. How long has King Priam been inside? An hour? Three? Longer? There have been no sounds of fighting, no sudden roar of rage from Achilles, at least that is a good sign. 

At last, Yusuf cannot take it any longer. “We have killed him, Nicolò,” he whispers in panic. “We have sent him to his death.”

“No,” Nicolò says decidedly, glad he is the one reassuring Yusuf for once. “No, we have done good. _You_ have done good. Achilles will let him go. He will, my heart.”

Yusuf breathes out and nods. They wait. 

Morning is not far off when the door opens again and the chariot and cart come out. The cart does not clink anymore. Instead, there is a large rug spread out over the unmistakable outline of a body. King Priam’s eyes are red with tears, but he seems relieved. Nicolò and Yusuf dare to breathe again.

“We have to get you out of here quickly,” Nicolò says and leads the way. 

Everyone stays silent on their way back. King Priam does not say anything about his meeting with Achilles. It does not matter. The only thing that matters is that he has his son back. At least this plan has worked.

They part at the Scamander, just as the pink fingers of dawn stretch across the horizon. King Priam thanks him once more and ascends the chariot, tears starting to fall from his cheeks. Yusuf gives a quick squeeze in Nicolò’s hand and jumps on the cart.

Nicolò watches them ride away into the sunrise until they disappear from view. 

When he returns and the camp wakes up, Achilles announces a truce has been arranged. The Trojans can have eleven days of peace to pay the last honours to their Prince. King Agamemnon is not happy this has been arranged without his knowing, but at least he is wise enough to stay silent this time.

In the next eleven days, when the wind is right, they can hear Troy weep.


	9. Chapter 9

On the twelfth day after Yusuf and Nicolò have led King Priam into the Greek camp, the war resumes. Nobody really seems to know what for.

Achilles’s rage has subsided, but it leaves a hollow shell in its place. He fights as he is supposed to, deadly precise as always, but there is no magnificence in his skill anymore. Only such tiredness. 

He dies not long after. He dies like any man. An arrow to the chest. Will this, then, be the end? Nicolò wonders. Will they finally be able to rest? Will they finally have peace now the two greatest warriors of both sides are dead and buried?

But Agamemnon is not satisfied. He still demands justice for a slight that has not even been done to him, he still demands blood. 

Nicolò and the other Myrmidons get a new leader by the name of Neoptolemus. He has arrived only a short while ago after Odysseus went to fetch him, and appears to be Achilles’s son. In appearance, he reminds Nicolò of his father, but that is where the similarities end. Neoptolemus is cold and distant and does not bat an eye at anything. Nicolò immediately hates him.

Yusuf is tired. They are both tired. Despite all their efforts, they have not been able to shorten the war. Men keep dying every day and sometimes it feels like it is their fault entirely. They console each other when the sadness takes over, trying to lift some of the burden. At least they are in this together.

They do not know what will come next. The end of war seems further away than ever, like the endlessness of the ocean in every direction at mid-sea. There is no before and there is no after, there is only war. The only way it might ever end is if both sides massacre each other and Yusuf and Nicolò are the only ones left. 

Of course it is Odysseus who changes this dreadful, hopeless monotony. 

We are sailing away, he says and the men mumble in confusion. And we are leaving a present for the Trojans, tamers of horses. We leave them the biggest, most magnificent horse they have ever seen. When they have taken it into their city and celebrated our seeming defeat, we will come out like foals. We will open the gates and let those Trojans see what the gifts of Greeks are made of.

The men cheer in relief and excitement. The end is near, victory is within their grasp.

Nicolò pales and the world tilts and turns around him. As soon as the assembly is dismissed he runs to warn Yusuf.

He runs over the plains stretching out in front of Troy, crosses the Scamander river, passes the burial mound of Ilos, founder of the mighty city that is about to fall. He dashes for the wall, for the secret entrance Yusuf has shown him. But it is broad daylight and he has no cover. 

An arrow pierces his shoulder and he falls on his back, smacking his head against the ground. The sky moves and waves above him. His flesh is already pushing out the arrow excruciatingly as it heals. 

“Nicolò!” 

Nicolò recognises the voice. A voice from mount Olympus itself, he must be dreaming.

But then Yusuf’s face appears above him and Nicolò blinks to focus.

“Nicolò, I am sorry, I did not know it was you!” He pulls the arrow out and Nicolò cries out, clenching his teeth and breathing hard to ease the pain.

When it has gone away, he grabs Yusuf by the shoulders and sits up. “The horse, Yusuf! They are sending a horse!”

“A horse? Nicolò, what are you talking about? What is wrong?”

“It is a trick. They will pretend to sail away and hide inside a horse they will leave on the shores to enter the city.”

Yusuf pales and swallows. “Are you certain?”

“Odysseus told us today at the assembly. Yusuf, we have to warn them!”

Yusuf nods and helps Nicolò up. “There is no time to lose.”

Yusuf takes him to his commander, telling everyone who draws their weapons at the sight of Nicolò that Nicolò has come with valuable information. The commander is in a war meeting and the guard outside refuses to let them in.

“He will want to hear this, trust me,” Yusuf says, taking a step closer to the guard. “The survival of Troy depends on it.”

The guard hesitates a moment longer, then disappears inside to announce their arrival. They are admitted into the room. A handful of men are sitting together, their discussion falling silent as Yusuf and Nicolò enter. It is only a war meeting of the lower regiments, that much is clear by the stark room and few men present, but they have to start somewhere.

“I am sorry to disturb you, sir,” Yusuf says with an incline of his head. “But this is a matter that cannot wait. I shot this Greek here when I was patrolling and he claims to have valuable information about a trick the Greeks are concocting to take the city.”

A man with grey streaks in his black hair and a scar across his nose considers Nicolò intently. A short nod. “Very well, let us hear it."

Nicolò is careful not to glance at Yusuf. With a bowed head, he takes a small step forward and explains to the small assembly what the Greeks are planning. It is silent for a long time afterwards. Nicolò does not dare to glance up and see their reactions. 

“Why come to us now?” the man with the scar asks and Nicolò is so surprised he looks up.

“I beg your pardon?”

“It has been ten years. Why betray your army now?”

Nicolò grasps for words for a moment. He does not have Yusuf's talent to always know what to say. “Because I want the war to end,” he manages eventually. 

The man narrows his eyes. “Then why come to us at all? If it is really as you say, then victory should be within grasp for your barbaric scum. So why tell us this?”

“Sir, we should liste-” Yusuf tries.

“Silent, you!” the man barks. He takes another good look at Nicolò. “Maybe you are the horse you speak of. To provoke us, get us to attack and run straight into the real trap you filthy Greeks have devised.”

Nicolò wants to answer, but another thin, boney man with grey hair pipes up, “Where is the wound?”

“The wound?” the scarred man asks, turning to the new speaker.

“The soldier here said he shot the Greek, and yes, there is a hole in his tunic and fresh blood around it, but I see no wound. Where is the wound?”

Now the eyes turn to Yusuf. Nicolò’s heart stops.

“Are you plotting with this Greek?” the man with the scar hisses.

Nicolò speaks before Yusuf can even open his mouth. “I would sooner die than work with a Trojan flea.”

It is only after he has spoken that he realises his error. 

The attention shifts back to him. The men smile and chuckle humorlessly, shaking their heads.

“And there we have our answer, gentlemen,” the man says. “I must admit, this Greek was convincing at first. But after ten years, we know well enough that they are not capable of any sympathy or compassion. Guards, put him in chains and lock him up. Maybe with enough… persuasion we will get some real information out of him.”

Nicolò is too numb and horrified by what has just happened to react. The guards put his hands behind his back and tie them together. Yusuf is talking, but no one is listening to him. Nicolò meets his eyes and shakes his head minutely. It will do no good if Yusuf is locked away too. If he is free, he can still warn them when the horse comes. They might still have a chance. Besides, Nicolò cannot die anyway, he can wait.

Yusuf, wonderful, brilliant Yusuf, seems to understand what Nicolò’s eyes are trying to convey. His shoulders slump in defeat and the panic does not quite leave his face, but he pulls his mouth into a tight line and lets the guards drag Nicolò away.


	10. Chapter 10

When Nicolò is dragged away, it feels like Yusuf’s heart is being torn right out of his chest. He tries to stop the guards, telling them King Priam knows Nicolò, that he is trustworthy, but Nicolò shakes his head at him and he closes his mouth. _Stay here,_ his eyes tell him, _warn them, I will be all right._ So he stays and watches as they take his Nicolò away from him.

There is not much he can do right now. He could try again and say he got the information from a Greek he slew, but his commander knows he was involved in this incident. He will make sure no one believes him and it will only get him into trouble too. So there is not much left but to wait. Wait for the horse to appear and try to convince the Trojans it is a trap then. And in the meantime, they are doing gods know what to Nicolò. 

The sun has set when he exits, immersing the city in a beautiful play of light and shadows that would normally make his fingers ache for his brushes. Now, he barely notices it. With a heavy feeling in his chest and dragging feet, he goes home. 

He eats because he has to, but does not taste any of it. He looks at all his unfinished work. He does not have to meet Nicolò this night, he has some time to paint or work the marble. He wanders to the tables with his materials. His eyes find the painting he did of Nicolò and his heart clenches. He brushes his fingertips over the jawline, over his hair. 

He did not mean to fall in love. Certainly not with one of his enemies. He hated Nicolò once, by Apollo, how he hated him. He still remembers his anger when he realised Nicolò had the same strange gift as him, how he asked the gods why on earth they were doing this. He had to propose the truce. It was useless to keep fighting an enemy that could not die either way, and if he himself could not either, he was needed elsewhere where he could make a difference. 

Then Nicolò surprised him by saving him, killing one of his own in the process. Yusuf had been confused and scared and angry because he could not understand. After their outburst that night, he felt, ever so faintly, something had shifted. All great things start with the smallest of steps. 

Ever since, he kept coming back to Nicolò, not because he had stopped blaming him, but because he was intrigued. Intrigued by the way he had been in his dreams and had disappeared from them just as sudden, intrigued by the gift they shared and if there was anything connecting them to cause this, intrigued by the way Nicolò listened and contemplated and changed. He changed before his eyes. And he grew kind and patient and passionate to do what was right. And Yusuf’s heart beat faster, pounding Nicolò’s name as if it was the only word it knew.

He did not mean to fall in love, he really did not. But the arrows of Eros are unrelenting.

He smiles as he thinks of a night at the river not so long ago. A peaceful night in each other’s arms where the war could not touch them. Where there was still time for jokes and laughter.

“I think it might have been the arrow of Eros that struck me,” Nicolò mused, meaning the first time Yusuf shot an arrow in his chest.

“You are forgetting that it actually killed you, my love,” Yusuf said with laughter, brushing his lips over Nicolò’s knuckles.

Nicolò chuckled. He turned his head to look Yusuf in the eye, the expression on his face softer than the clouds. “What better death than to die by love?”

Yusuf's chest tightens thinking back on it.

“I will come back to you,” he whispers to the painting. He puts out the oil lamps and goes to bed.

***

Eleven days later, the horse appears. The Greeks are gone, all their tents, all their ships. Only the wall is still there to bear witness that they were ever there. And the horse.

Scouts are immediately sent out to verify if they have really sailed away. The army gathers around the horse, peering up to it. Yusuf must admit it is a fine example of great craftsmanship. It is large as a statue of a god that would not be unsuited for a temple. It is wholly made out of wood, but the pieces and shapes are chosen and assembled with great care. As far as parting gifts go, this is one befitting of gods. Were it not for the Greeks hiding inside of it.

Yusuf has already begun to spread doubt and suspicion around him when Laocoon speaks. He is an esteemed priest of Apollo. He tells the Trojans this horse will be their doom and that they must bar it from the city at all costs. Worried mumbling ripples through the crowd. They voice their agreement with Laocoon, Yusuf loudest of all.

Then a scout returns with a Greek by the name of Sinon. Sinon claims he has escaped and hidden from the Greeks. They needed a human sacrifice for favourable wind to return home, just like they did on their way here. Odysseus had tricked him like he had tricked Iphigenia. But at the last moment, he managed to escape and hid until they were gone. 

“So they really are gone?” one of the Trojan commanders asks.

“Yes,” Sinon answers. “The men refused to fight any longer.”

Panic rises in Yusuf’s throat as he notices the Trojans around him starting to doubt again, considering the horse because it was a pretty statue after all. 

“It is a trick!” Laocoon cries. “This man is sent by Odysseus himself!”

Yusuf cries his agreement, as do a couple of others, but they are frighteningly few opposed to some moments ago.

And then the snakes come. They must have been hiding in the sand. Laocoon cries out as he is bitten, his two sons run towards him to help him but are bitten as well. The crowd gasps and takes a step back, swords drawn here and there as the snakes slither away again. The poison works quickly, one moment they are screaming, the next they lie thrashing on the ground. A moment later, they are dead. 

The Trojans decide it is a sign that Laocoon was lying, that Apollo has punished him for it. They take the horse inside. Yusuf cries out and tries and tries and tries to change their mind again, but nobody listens. 

After the celebrations that night, the people of Troy are awoken from their blissful slumber by their precious city on fire. Yusuf has not slept, he is the first to wake up soldiers at the gates once the Greeks crawl out. 

Then he dashes away to find Nicolò and save Troy together.


	11. Chapter 11

Time has ceased to exist in the place they imprison Nicolò in. A damp and cold dungeon the beams of the sun cannot reach, somewhere below the citadel. Nicolò does not know how long he has been here in his cage. Days, he suspects. Weeks, he fears. There is a change of guards every so often, but he has no idea how many hours they are each on duty. At first they shoved food through the doorway sometimes -he thinks once a day-, but that has ceased now as a part of the ‘persuasion’ the scarred commander talked about. Whenever they come to question him they dangle some bread or cheese or even meat in front of his eyes as if taunting a begging dog. He ignores it and repeats over and over again the plan of Odysseus. They will not listen.

He is hungry, starving really, and he is so filthy he can hardly stand his own smell. But most of all, he is worried. He has no clue what is going on up there, no clue if Yusuf can convince them the danger is real, and it frightens him to the bone. There is nothing he can do and it horrifies him. 

What good is immortality if you are locked up in a cage? 

His captors have not yet noticed this ability, fortunately. But if the starvation does not work, it will not take long for them to switch to more drastic measures to make him talk, and then they will know soon enough. 

He curses under his breath and lets his head fall back against the stone wall. He closes his eyes and thinks of Yusuf. The crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, on his forehead when he raises his eyebrows, the sound of his voice when he is telling Nicolò the secrets of his heart, of his laughter when Nicolò can make him forget all his grief for a moment, his calming scent of pigments and charcoal and almond. Nicolò smiles. Yes, for him he can get through this.

There is screaming outside the door. Nicolò jumps up and puts his ear against the wood to listen. 

“-to guard if the Greeks conquer the city!”

“But-”

“Go!”

It is followed by hurried footsteps and the rattling of weapons and armour. When it has quieted down again, a voice sounds from a distance. “Nicolò?”

“Here!” Nicolò yells and his heart is hammering its way right out of his chest because it is Yusuf calling for him. “I am here!”

“Nicolò?” It is closer now, right in front of his door.

“Here, Yusuf!”

There is shoving at the door, the scraping of metal against wood. Then it finally creaks open.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò’s voice breaks on his name. He throws his arms around Yusuf’s neck and their lips meet in earth-shattering relief. “What is happening?” he asks as soon as they break the kiss.

“The horse,” Yusuf says and the panic and concern rise in his eyes again.

Nicolò’s stomach dropped. “They took it inside?”

“Yes.” Yusuf leads Nicolò out of the prison cell and searches for some armour or weapons. “I have tried to warn them, and the commanders we told were advising against it as well. But there was an incident with a priest of Apollo and a Greek that was supposedly left behind. Long story short, they chose to believe the Greek after some scouting and took the horse inside. When the celebrations were over and everyone slept, they crept out.”

“By Zeus, has it been long?”

Yusuf shakes his head and hands Nicolò a sword. “No, I immediately came here to find you. I have started the evacuation on my way here, though. I have sent them to our secret passage in the wall so they can escape. We have to tell anyone we can.”

Nicolò nods and follows Yusuf up the stairs. He is gasping for air by the time they are at the top, the ground beneath his feet tilting. 

“Nicolò, are you all right?”

Yusuf’s face swims into view. He looks concerned. 

“Yes, I am fine. Only… I think I could use some food. How long was I down there?”

Yusuf swallows and pales a little. “Eleven days.”

Nicolò nods slightly to himself. 

“How long have you not eaten?” Yusuf asks.

Nicolò thinks for a moment. “Probably about a week.”

“A week? Nicolò why did you not say-”

“It does not matter, I am fine. Come, we have to save your people.” He pushes himself off of the wall he was leaning on and runs outside.

The night is burning. Flames are reaching to the stars and all around the screaming of men and women and children echoes. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò mutters.

Yusuf glances at him and Nicolò’s heart breaks at the sight of all the pain written on his face. “I know.”

Nicolò squeezes Yusuf’s hand. Together, they run. 

It appears they make for quite the team now they can finally work together on the battlefield. As if they have one mind, a string attached between each other’s bodies. When one of them attacks, the other is always there to cover his back or to finish the job. When one loses a weapon, the other already has a replacement ready. They have killed each other for seven years, they know how the other fights and moves, they know what the other’s weaknesses are and where their protection is crucial. 

They send every Trojan citizen they meet to the passage. They tell Trojan soldiers to accompany and protect them on their way. They would want to bring everyone to safety personally, but there is no time. 

Screams reach them from a burning house. Yusuf runs in without hesitation. Nicolò yells after him, but a Greek soldier attacks him before he can go inside. He has just managed to strike him down when Yusuf returns. He is carrying a screaming girl, no older than twelve, over his shoulder who is pounding her fists on his back. His face and hands are covered in burns, parts of his hair are singed off and Nicolò barely recognises him. He puts the girl down as Nicolò runs over. She has burns too, he sees, but they are less severe than Yusuf’s. 

“It was too late for your mother,” Yusuf says, coughing. “But she would wish for you to be safe.”

The girl is still crying and yelling, but she stops when she notices the burns on Yusuf’s face healing, his hair growing back. “You- you-” she stutters, but she cannot get any further.

Yusuf looks up at Nicolò. “We must bring her. She will not get there on her own.”

Nicolò nods and gently picks up the girl so Yusuf can heal, ignoring the light-headedness. Fortunately, the girl does not scream or struggle anymore. She has slipped into a state of numbness. Probably for the best, Nicolò thinks.

They make their way through the city, Yusuf warding off any attackers. Other Trojan soldiers realise what they are doing and where they are taking everyone and start to do the same, some staying to stand guard at the passage. Once they have entrusted the girl to them, Yusuf and Nicolò run back into the city. Yusuf finds some lost loaf of bread on the street and hands it to Nicolò who eats it while running. Nothing has ever been so delicious.

Unfortunately, the Trojans are not the only ones who have noticed what they are doing. What is even worse: some Greeks recognise Nicolò beneath all the filth.

“So this is where you have been!” a Myrmidon called Demetrios calls out. “You treacherous dog!”

Traitor, traitor, the others chant. They are closing in on them from all sides. Ten, maybe fifteen. Nicolò and Yusuf stand back to back, keeping a close watch on every single one of them, every muscle at the ready.

“And who is this?” someone shouts behind Nicolò. “Is this the Trojan whore you always sneaked off to?”

“Do not. Touch him,” Nicolò says through gritted teeth.

Laughter. “Apparently it is.”

“Enough foreplay,” says Demetrios. “Time for some fun.” 

He strikes. Nicolò reacts immediately and parries the blow. But another one is already at his side. Behind him, they are attacking Yusuf too. Nicolò fights as he has never done before, he even manages to slice one Greek’s neck and knock another one unconscious. But they are with too many and Nicolò is not a hero, after all. 

As he stabs at one of their assailants, another one drives his knee into Nicolò’s stomach, making him double over and gasp for breath. At once, hands grab his arms and hold them behind his back, just high enough to be painful. Nicolò’s eyes search for Yusuf. He is down on his knees, as two men hold him from behind. He looks dazed, blood dripping from his mouth. 

His eyes meet Nicolò’s and Nicolò fights to break free, but cries out as it nearly breaks his arm. 

“We will show you how to properly treat a Trojan,” Demetrios says and crouches down so he is at eye-level with Yusuf. Yusuf glares at him and spits in his face. 

After a stunned pause, Demetrios growls and punches Yusuf in the face, then immediately grabs his hair and kicks his nose with his knee.

“No!” Nicolò struggles again, but they twist his arms, causing something to snap. He grunts and hisses. “You enjoy suffering?” he pants. “You are all cowards. He is a better man than you can ever dream to be.”

“Just kill them already,” one of the other soldiers says. He sounds bored. “Otherwise there will be no loot left in the citadel.”

The others mutter their agreement. Demetrios considers it for a moment. Then draws his blade and slices Yusuf’s throat. 

Yusuf chokes and gurgles. His eyes land on Nicolò right before their light fades out. He collapses and they push him face down on the ground.

Nicolò is screaming. He fights with all his might to get to Yusuf, ignoring the shoots of pain from his broken arm. Then a stab in his back, a knife twisting, and all falls to darkness.

He inhales. His eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings. They find Yusuf not far off, his shoulders shuddering as he draws breath. He is alive, he is alive. Yusuf pushes himself up, looking around frantically. He sighs and closes his eyes in relief when he sees Nicolò breathing and moving as well. 

They crawl to one another. Nicolò briefly touches Yusuf’s cheek to make sure he is all right. 

When he looks about, he notices their attackers are only a little further down the street. Nicolò and Yusuf share a look, stand up and run after them. 

The soldiers do not know what is coming for them. When they have finally recovered from the shock of realising their victims are somehow alive again, Nicolò and Yusuf have already taken out six of them. The others do not manage to escape. 

They leave Demetrios for last. Nicolò has him pinned to the ground, the man's own knife pressed against his throat. Nicolò can barely contain all the rage burning inside of him. Now, he truly understands Achilles.

"Do you want to do it?” Yusuf asks Nicolò.

Nicolò shakes his head and moves the knife to the man’s chest. “He is all yours.”

“You should not have angered Nicolò,” Yusuf tells Demetrios with something of regret in his voice. The man beneath Nicolò whimpers. “And you should certainly not have hurt him.”

He brings down his sword and cleaves the man’s head right off.

Nicolò stands up. Their eyes lock together. There will be a time to hold each other through the horror of what just happened, of losing each other so cruelly, so helplessly. But now is not the time. With a nod, they go on to save as many people as they can.


	12. Chapter 12

Without them, it is certain not as many people would have survived as there did. Even so, they could not save the city. It burned and burned, the flames like great waves in an ocean storm. They ran around for the remainder of the night, saving everyone they could, dying themselves more than once in doing so. 

Eventually, they too had to admit the only thing left to do was to flee. They ran and ran and ran to get away from the burning city as far as possible, pulling each other up when one of them had fallen, supporting each other as they could barely set one foot in front of the other anymore. They ran until they collapsed to the ground together.

They slept.

***

When Nicolò wakes up, the sun is already high in the sky. Yusuf sits a little further with his back to him. Nicolò rubs his eyes and sits up. They are on a hill. A small creek is flowing next to them. Nicolò cups his hands and drinks from it, easing his scorched throat. He washes his face which makes him feel slightly better.

He goes to sit next to Yusuf. In the distance, he can see a small, smoking speck on the horizon. His heart is heavy as a mountain. He looks at Yusuf and notices the tear tracks on his cheek, the tears that are still silently running down. Tenderly, he takes Yusuf's hand in his. Yusuf squeezes faintly. They stare ahead of them in silence for a while. 

Nicolò remembers. The screams, the fire, the chaos and panic. All those scared people they failed to save. All those years he and his people had stolen away already and how many more years they have stolen away now. His throat tightens, tears burning behind his own eyes. 

“I am sorry, Yusuf,” he whispers. “I am so sorry. How can I ever make it up to you? I have… I have destroyed your home.”

Yusuf tenses. Tears slip from Nicolò’s eyes as he closes them. This is it. This is unforgivable, even for Yusuf. He wants to draw his hand back, but Yusuf holds on tighter.

Nicolò opens his eyes in surprise and turns to Yusuf. Yusuf, whose face is one of utter disbelief and shock. Yusuf, who cups Nicolò’s face and gently brushes his tears away with his thumb.

“My heart,” he says, moving his face when Nicolò casts his eyes down to make Nicolò meet his eyes again, “my moon, my night and day. You are not the one who assembled the Greeks and sailed to Troy. You are not the one who has killed Hector. You are not the one who has lit the fires in my city. You have come here misguided and hateful. But you have changed, my love, you have _changed_. You are a better man now. You are yourself now. You have righted your wrongs a thousandfold. Yes, I weep for my city and I weep for my people, but do not ever think I blame you. It is because of you there are still Trojans left. It is because of you that I am still here and I have not lost myself in the hatred that consumed me before I met you. You have shown me there is still good and kindness in this world, you have shown me love survives despite everything seeking to destroy it. My love, I would sing songs of you if I could ever find the words that would do you justice. You once told me you were not a hero, and you were right. For no hero could ever dream to be like you. My star, despite all this suffering, in all this ruin, I am glad the gods have led me to you. My purpose, my eternity, you are my all. You are my all and you are more.”

Nicolò is silently crying by the time Yusuf is finished and so is Yusuf. Nicolò’s heart is so full it will burst any moment. 

He smiles a little, lets out a short laugh. “And then you always say you are not a poet.”

Despite everything they have gone through these past few days, these last ten years, they laugh. It is weepy and shakily, more a release of tension and too much suffering in too little time than anything else, but for now it is enough. 

Their foreheads touch. Yusuf’s hand is in Nicolò’s neck and Nicolò brushes Yusuf’s cheek with one hand and holds onto his shirt with the other. They breathe with each other for a while, savouring the fact they are both alive and here.

“I love you,” Nicolò whispers.

“I love you too,” Yusuf answers. 

Their lips meet and in the kiss, they promise each other their eternity.

***

The next day, they stand on the same spot, hand in hand. For a last time, they gaze upon what was once the mighty city of Troy. It will live on in stories, they will make sure of that. It will live on in their memories for all time.

Nicolò softly tugs at Yusuf’s hand in a quiet question. Yusuf nods.

They turn around to leave. Yusuf looks back one more time, his eyes gleaming. Then he lets Nicolò lead him away. And so their eternal life begins, with a search for the women in their dreams, for answers, for the gods know what else. But at least there is one certainty in everything: they will be together, always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it! Please feel free to let me know what you think of it, I always appreciate feedback and love to know your experience! <3


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